


The Art of Being a Runaway

by brother_snackariah



Category: No Fandoms
Genre: Not a fanfic, Paris - Freeform, Short Stories, Victorian era, a short story, victorian era paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brother_snackariah/pseuds/brother_snackariah
Summary: Basically Enola Holmes if Enola Holmes moved to Paris, hated it, and left to go back home. A short story, not a fanfic go Enola Holmes.





	The Art of Being a Runaway

There is a small package on the beautifully crafted dresser. Inside that package is a secret. The package has small dark spots, courtesy of the rain, and a name that’s smeared and unrecognizable. I don’t dare open it, for fear that father would walk in and accuse me for a crime I haven’t yet committed. Instead, I throw it in the back of my closet where only dust and long-lived outfits remain, and cringe as it thumps loudly against the back. I wait to hear my father’s booming voice that indicates he heard the thump, but there is only the sound of my breaths. After I decide I’m safe, I close the closet door. I sit on the bed carefully, forming excuses if that nosy neighbor asks my father where I was last night. Mrs. Taylor meant well, of course, she just didn’t know when to mind her own business. And she is awfully loyal to my father. Too loyal. One might suspect that they were planning to run away together and start a family.

With the package in the closet, and lies in my head I felt it was safe to begin my morning routine with the normalcy of any young woman. Over the years, I was forced to learn how to lace a corset myself, because of my father’s refusal to have maids in the house. It is a skill I am rather proud of, in spite of the uselessness it had in the real world. The girls back in Murat didn’t even wear a corset, and were free to dress more easily. It's one of the reasons I so badly want to go back there, and I assume it’s one of the reasons my father so badly wanted to leave. The way he thinks is very old fashioned, and he has no respect for anyone that isn’t on his level. I tighten the corset in sudden frustration, and pull on a large dress that was a gift, and makes it impossible to fit through the door and not squish it. Before I leave the comforts of my own space, I look at the mirror and take a deep breath. You are a brilliant mastermind, I tell myself, a cunning heroine. I nod, and set out of my bed chambers, softly shutting the door behind me.   
I like many things about the hallway outside my bedroom. I enjoy things like looking at the beautifully flowered wallpaper, the glass cabinets, the portrait of the cat holding a knife, and walking on the carpet. Many rooms were in this hallway, but only two people lived in it. I stop by the other occupied room, and stand in the doorway. There lay the reason my father refused to have maids. My mother. She stays in bed all day, only rarely waking up to eat and drink. This is because of an accident long ago. An accident that renders her useless to being a good wife or mother, and gives her terrible headaches that only sleep takes away. My father tells everyone that she is shy and doesn’t like to leave the house, for fear that we would be disgraced in society’s views. I don’t care about that, though. I only care about her getting better. It’s been a while since I've even heard her talk.

“Elizabeth!” My back goes stiff. “Elizabeth, where are you?” My father’s calling, probably from the kitchen. Which means he wants to talk. Usually he’s gone by now, to the sewing and dress shop he owns, and he never invites me to come with him. It’s not like I want to go, but I would appreciate it if he even tried to include me in his dream. After all, I left my whole life behind for it.

I swallow. “Coming down, father!” I calmly pick up my dress, and walk rather fast to the staircase. I walk down the stairs, and see through the doorway that my father is sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. There’s a notebook in front of him, and he’s writing in it studiously, as if to make up for the time he could be in his studio. He acknowledges me by a hand motion and putting a cup in front of a separate chair across the corner of the table. I kiss him on the cheek and go to sit down. I pick up the cup daintily, waiting for the tea to cool.

“How was the ball, Elizabeth?” I’m startled into taking a sip of the scalding drink, and cough, choking on the heat. My father, who is now drawing something in his notebook, looks at me warily. I give him what I hoped was a convincing smile, because I was not at the ball last night. I was picking up a package that was necessary for my escape from Paris. The package that was now in my closet.

“It was lovely,” I started, knowing what father would like to hear, “I talked with many young women about our hobbies, and picked up several new knitting tips. I know you think I'm an utter disgrace because I have taken knitting,” he makes sounds of protest, “which I know you call ‘sewing for people with fat fingers’. But nevertheless, me and my fat fingers will be making you a horrid scarf this Christmas.”

He smiles, “Your fingers are perfectly fine. Did you dance?” 

“My feet still hurt quite a bit.”

“Excellent. It’s a pity the doctor is away, otherwise he could see to your feet.” My thoughts disagree. I know that he doesn’t want to invite doctors because of my mother, does he have to lie? Or better yet, why not just let them fix her? But I cannot say those things, because I do not want to trigger a conversation. Picking up a scone, I start to talk more. Father always seems to like it when I chat nonsense about random things. Which is good, because I do it quite often. I tell him things that I didn’t hear last night, but other nights, careful of the timing but free with everything else.

“....then Mrs. Wilson told me one of her secrets that she might be, well, unable to-” my father stops me by setting down his cup rather loudly.  
He sighs, “If it is a secret, Elizabeth, why are you telling me?” I clap a hand over my mouth and mumble an apology. Everyone on the block knew this by now, and was probably the reason I didn’t have any friends. I was so bad at keeping secrets, it was a miracle I could keep my own. 

“Well,” I say, “I had a lovely time.” With that statement, and my breakfast finished, I pick up my dress and make my way out of the room.

“Elizabeth.”

I freeze. I turn back to face him. He motions for me to sit back down. Whatever he meant to talk about, I would hear now. The reason he had eaten breakfast with me, and used his stern voice just now. I do sit down, my heart sinking deep in my chest, thinking that he may have heard that I wasn’t at the ball. Intercepted one of my many letters to Sarah. Found the package, and got angry because I was keeping boys clothes in my room.  
But he doesn’t look angry, like he had snooped and found things he didn’t expect. The opposite. I narrow my eyes as he takes my hands in his. It’s clear that he’s not angry. But that hardly means anything. He could still very well declare me insane and toss me in a home.

“I doubted you might’ve had activities planned for the summer, and so I planned an experience for us, as a family, so you would not get bored.” I give him a nod to show I understand, while not understanding. Is this a way of making fun at my poor social talents and lack of friends? His face betrays nothing, but he has always had a good poker face. 

“A summer in a house by the lake will be extraordinary. You’re lucky,” he continues, talking about random traveling plans. I can hardly hear him. Although I doubted that he knew, it was still an immense relief to find out that he still doesn’t know everything about me. Such a pity that I won’t be able to go to that house on the lake, though. It would have been fun. 

“We need to be leaving as soon as possible, Elizabeth, so pack some bags tonight,” My father states, and my heart stops in a flurry of panic. Tonight? That won’t give me any time to leave. 

“Are you all right, darling?” My head shoots up to see my father looking at me worriedly. I am aware of the pencil in his hand still scribbling on the page, outlining a drawing over and over again.

“Well, um, yes,” I stutter, “It’s just that-”

“Just what?” Father interrupted, fully closing his journal with a light sound. The pencil stops, and falls. It clatters on the table.

“Do you have other plans?” The question is simple, but I have to bite my lip in an effort to not blurt it out. I can taste blood, but I don’t stop. If I did blurt my secret out, I would be in a huge amount of trouble, and my hopes of ever leaving this dreaded city would be gone. I tell myself to lie, and come up with another plan.

So I move my eyes to meet him and say: “No, father. I will go pack now.” He nods, and I leave, sweat dripping down my palms. 

\---------------------------------------

When I arrive upstairs I heavily sit down on my stool. The effort it takes for me to lie is huge, and that was such a close call. Once I take a few deep breaths and steady myself, I take out a pen and paper and begin to write. 

Dearest Sarah,

The letter I am writing now comes with bad news. My father has decided that the family should take a brief vacation to a lakehouse. We are supposed to leave soon, though I think he means tonight. I was so panicked in the moment I almost ruined everything! You are aware of the nervous tick I have, I simply cannot keep my mouth shut! If I have added to his suspicions, my apologies.  
I do not know what he intends to do with my mother. If he brings her, it will be a hassle and will not make the vacation anymore enjoyable. If she stays, he would have to hire someone to take care of her, and he would never do that. I can only hope that he does not leave her here alone to starve. Though of course, right now that is the least of my worries. I plan to leave tonight, Sarah, it is the only way. I wrote to tell you this in case you are not surprised by my early arrival. Though I might be there before the letter comes, it is good to have some preparation. I’ve already got the clothes and the money that my father keeps hidden away in his safe. The only thing left to do now is leave. Oh honest to god i’m terrified! There’s no question of what he will do if he catches me. If I do not arrive, and nor do any other letters, assume it is over and my father will keep me in his sight for the rest of my life. I hope I will be safe, and that does not happen, but you never know. Wish me luck, and I will hopefully see you soon.

Love, Elizabeth

I kiss the letter for luck and tuck it in an envelope. After it is sealed, I wait. It’s not nearly ten yet, and the train doesn’t leave for another seven hours. With barely anything left to do I check my plans over and over again. I make sure I have all of my materials. The package I had thought of just this morning is still in it’s hiding place, and the clothes are still there. When I finish checking my materials, I go over the plan again. After going over the plan once more, I check my materials. It is a never ending cycle of worrying. In between all the worrying, however, I sit in my window and dream. I knit a final scarf for my father, and leave behind other things for him and my mother. Eventually, the sun goes a bit past the middle of the sky, and I know I have to leave. I go over the plan one more time. It’s so hard to believe that I could even try to attempt something like this. I’m not overly strong, or smart. I’m definitely not a good liar. I am just insane, apparently.

First, I slide a book over and take out the money I had in the bank from an account under my name. It took much convincing and flirting to get it, and I am not intending to waste it. The money and the clothes are the only things I am taking with me. I decided to bring no luggage, because what if the inspection officers open the suitcase and find lady things? I shudder at the idea. I walk over to the closet, open up the two french doors, and stare a hole into the brown packaging. It is going to be alright, I remind myself, You can do it. Filled with sudden confidence, I grab the package and leave my closet behind. I tuck the package under my dress, hoping to God it doesn’t fall out in the middle of a conversation. Or even worse, while walking on the street. It would ruin everything but would also be quite embarrassing, even for me. Probably not as embarrassing as the time I ate too many scones, but a close second. I look once in the mirror to make sure the lump isn’t visible. It looks a bit like I am with a child, but my father wouldn’t know the difference. If I happen to run into him and he asks I could always tell him it’s a lady problem, then he would get flustered and drop the issue. I can only hope I don’t run into Mrs. Taylor. She would make several offhand comments about my diet, and I would have to try to get myself from committing homicide. 

Oh well, I would worry about that if I come across her. And if I succeed, I shall never have to speak to her again. I smile slowly at the prospect, and leave the safety of my bedroom. A place I thrived for five years.

When I close the door to the room, I am hit with the realization that I might never be back in there. I feel the sting of tears on the back of my eyes, and blink rapidly to send them away. It is only a room. A room does not mean home. Murat means home. Sarah means home. And as much as I don’t like to think about it, my father means home. Even though I am leaving him, I won’t just forget him or live the rest of my life hating him. After all, he did make us move to live his dream. It’s just not the dream I want to live. The hallway I love pulls me back from my moping, and I admire it. The other occupied room, soon to be the only occupied room, catches my attention as I wander down my hallway for the last time. I feel slightly guilty about leaving my mother so sick like that, but I believe she will not be in harm's way. My father did marry her, after all, in a town where marriage was the least of everyone’s worries. He must love her. Still, I walk in the room for the first time in months. I haven’t looked at her face in such a long time, and it pains me to see how old she’s gotten. Her eyes are closed, and she is breathing only softly. I kiss her on the forehead, brushing away the hair from her sweaty forehead.

“Bye, mama,” I whisper. I wait to see if she responds, wishing she would. When she doesn’t, I sigh and walk out, wondering if I’d ever see her again.

\---------------------------------------

My father is gone when I get downstairs. Most likely at his shop. I borrow a piece of paper and a pen from his expensive collection, and scribble out a note. 

Father-

I have packed my belongings, and they are upstairs. I have gone to mail a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Richards to thank them for hosting me last night. After that, I shall be around the city. I must get myself reacquainted so I do not miss it so bad. I am writing to tell you not to worry if I do not come home before nightfall.

Your loving daughter, Elizabeth

At least the part about mailing a letter will be truthful. At least I am not entirely a big, fat liar. The longer letter I have more heartfeltly written is upstairs. I just can’t bear for him to see it when he comes home. No, let him read it when I am gone. That way I am too far away when I regret the choice and want to go back. Too far away for him to try and get me back. 

A letter in my hands, and an extremely uncomfortable package up my dress, I prepare myself. I need to find a place to change where no one will notice anything, or recognize me. After that, it’s fairly simple. Buy a ticket at the train station with the money I took from my bank account and put in my bookshelf, and get on the train without suspicion. And also avoid the police that patrol the platform. They will definitely recognize me. My father holds an annual party to celebrate the police. I attend every year with disgust.  
I’m outside of my house by now, and I look back behind me. The front door to the beautiful Paris flat I have lived in for five years is a dark green. My father let me pick out the color when we first moved in, and I decided that Jade green would look the best. I liked the color. The green reminded me of the forests, and the grass. It made me feel like my small, rural town was still with me, even though we were so far away. I place my palm on the scratched wood. I was going to get splinters, but it was worth it for this unorthodox goodbye. 

“Goodbye,” I whisper. 

I walk down to the street before it becomes too hard to pull myself away. There are several people walking down the street this afternoon. It is going to be tough to find a place to change. All of the public places will be so crowded at this time of day. I wander around the streets to get inspiration for the first step of my plan. I pass by the park, the only place that has nature in this wretched town. Several artists are selling their paintings by the path. There’s an older man trying to get two children to stop running, and in the process one of the two children knocks over a can of paint. I laugh at the sounds of the man cursing, and then it hits me. A museum. An art museum. So many people go in and out it would be impossible to track them all. I’ll find a closet or bathroom, change, and leave the clothes in the trash. I’ll confuse some people when they see the clothes, but I will be long gone by then. I congratulate myself quickly on my own intelligence, and speed walk to the nearest bus that will take me straight to the Louvre. It takes a while to find one and make the trip, I’m rather sweaty when I finally arrive at the famous museum. But it is worth it to finally see my plan come to fruition. Elizabeth Walker, you old hag. You’ve done it again. I grin in an unladylike fashion at the tall, old building, and go inside it. I’m a bit bummed about wasting a bit of my money, but it is alright. I pay, and then immediately look for a place to change. I’ve been here thousands of times before, and I knew it very well. My father always made me go when he wanted to, and several other times when he didn’t. When I complained, he told me that education in the arts was important. And so, hence my knowledge on Paris’s finest museum. I know where the loneliest bathrooms are. I know where a janitor's closet is. I know where the secret lounge is, the ones employees use when they want to hide from bothersome tourists. I decide to go into the janitors closet, since there’s a less likely chance of anyone seeing me. I calmly walk to the closet, as to not arouse suspicion. The hallway it is in is empty, so I can easily slip in. When I do, I take the package from underneath my dress. It is soaked in sweat. It is disgusting, and is a real pain to open. The dampness makes the paper stick together. The clothes inside are fine, thank god. I discard the wrapper, and get dressed. 

For the past few months I have been studying up on men’s clothes. But once I am actually putting them on, it is rather strange to be wearing them. Once I get undressed, I pull on the pants and the button down shirt. Then I lace the black shoes and tuck my hair under the newsboy’s hat, making sure it is tight enough to stop hair from falling out. My corset is still on, because it would take too long to take it off. My face is full of makeup, so I wash it off in the little sink that is accessible. My personal clothes go discarded near the wrapper. When all is done, I look at myself in the small, stained mirror that has scratches. My features aren’t changed at all, but that won’t matter. Without makeup, it is impossible for others to identify a woman. And right now, I don’t look like someone who could be Mr. Walker’s daughter. I stuff the woman’s clothes, along with the package, down the trash. Opening the door a little bit, I am able to see that no one is coming. I slide out and walk back up towards the exit, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Leaving the Louvre is so much easier than entering. I don’t have the packaging stabbing me in the stomach, and I am no longer a suspicious young woman travelling by herself at this time of day. No one pays any attention to me at all.

It’s late when I finally arrive at the train station. The sun is farther west in the sky. I jog up to get tickets, enjoying the freedom the pants give me. On the way over to the trains, no one even gave me a second look. Not even the bus passengers. There are people in line to buy, but I do not have time to be polite. I elbow my way through all the rich people. They protest, but I am stronger, and make my way to the front of the line. The man behind the glass eyes me distastefully. I look up innocently at him.

“Are there any trains passing by Murat?” I ask, making my voice sound deeper, and the man gives me a look. The same look my father gives me when I ask if I can have a sip of wine. I can see a name tag up on the screen that says his name is Arnold.

“Are you sure you can pay for that, boy?” Arnold sneers, his mustache moving up on one side. 

“Yes, I can,” I assure him.

“I don’t want you to be embarrassed because you thought something was less than it actually is,” he shoots back. My eyes narrow. There are people behind me snickering.

“I can pay for it,” I say behind a clenched jaw, forcing out the words.

“Listen, boy-”

I sigh, my patience done, and pull out my wad of cash. He looks at it for a moment, obviously angry he’s been proven wrong. By girl, nonetheless, but he doesn’t know that.

“There is one that leaves in five minutes,” Arnold snatches the cash from my hands, and gives me a ticket in return, “better run. You don’t want to miss it.” His smirk is unbearable, and so I glare at him, unable to stop it. Right away, something passes over his face that looks like recognition and I realize that was a mistake. My father has hosted a lot of parties since we’ve been here. And during these parties, several men have come up to me to try and chat only to find that feat impossible. They are sent away with a scowl and an eyeroll. I do not talk at parties, and if I did it would definitely not be to older men. That was my father’s mistake. He didn’t find it suspicious when I told him I talked to other people at the ball I didn’t go to. Arnold studies my face some more. I don’t memorize the look of every man I’ve ever scowled at, but he could well enough be one. I thank him with my eyes down and scurry away from the stand before he can make the connection. As I leave, I hear him say something to an officer.

“Security, keep an eye on that boy, will you?”   
How terrific. Arnold the ticket master wants to keep an eye on me. I’d be touched if it weren’t for my trying to escape. I hear the train blow its horn, and even though there is a possible policeman chasing me, I won’t even have a chance of escaping if I don’t catch this locomotive. So I yell at the conductor to wait, and run. Up along all the benches and traffic lights, until I meet the conductor at the doors. He smiles at me, and I hold out my ticket, still catching my breath.

“You look like a boy who is running toward love,” he says, winking at me and taking my ticket. I laugh. You fool. You mediocre buffon. Why is love always on these people’s minds? I hate Paris.

“If by love, you mean the town of Murat, then absolutely,” I say. He hands my ticket back to me.

“Weell,” he replies, stretching out the vowel and winking like he has something in his eye, “I don’t normally do this but I might very well take an unscheduled stop at the quaint town of Murat.” He looks at me expectantly. This wasn’t what I was hinting at, but I appreciate it all the same. I nod and smile at him gratefully, and he lets me, tipping his blue hat as he does so. 

What a strange man.

I walk around in the train, looking at all the passengers. One compartment I see has a couple with a newborn baby that is crying. Another one has two friends, most likely, playing a card game. I decide it’s best to go into an empty compartment. I find the nearest one, slide the doors shut, and sit down. Looking at the horrid, red wallpaper around me, I smile big and giggle. I can’t believe I made it! On the train, ready to start a new life. My father probably doesn’t even know of my plans. I start to laugh hysterically, and so I have to shove my face into a pillow so as not to alarm the other passengers. Softly jumping on the ground, hitting my face with the complementary pillow, this is how I celebrate.  
My victory is short-lived, however. Soon, I hear the conductor talking near my door.

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. There is a policeman who wishes to look. He has told me that there might be an escapee with one of us! How exciting!” He pauses for a moment, as if expecting some sort of reaction. I do have a reaction, which is panic. He followed me onto the train? At least he is committed. The conductor eventually continues, “He will be searching every compartment…”

He keeps talking, but I am no longer listening. Searching every compartment? That’s my worst nightmare! Curse my habit for scowling at all those who are rude at me! My eyes frantically look around the tiny, red room for someplace to hide until the police are gone. I cannot hide under the seat, that will be the first place he searches. And there is nothing else but corners and carpet in sight. I was just about to give up and do a dangerous stunt by climbing out the window when my eyes travel above. I see the luggage space that every compartment includes. It already has a few bags, probably from some unfortunate souls who forgot them on their journey, but not that full. The perfect space for a young woman in need. I roll up my sleeves.

A couple minutes later I am under some very heavy bags in a place where people are not meant to go. I can immediately see why. It is very uncomfortable, and would hurt quite a bit if I fell. There is a nametag pressed painfully into my ribs, and my elbow is caught awkwardly in between the net. Time passes more slowly up where the luggage lives. It feels like forever since I painfully climbed up here. With my luck, he’s probably decided against searching the compartments, and I’ve wasted ten minutes up here. I am debating if going down and risking my chances would be worth it or not, when I hear footsteps. I freeze. I can hear the door slide open. Because of my position, I cannot see anything, but I am deeply aware of his presence. I feel like at any minute now he will scream: “Got you!”, and pull me down. 

But he doesn’t.

He just moves out, on to the next one, closing the door behind him. I breathe a tremendous sigh of relief, and climb down. It’s harder to do so now, seeing as I am underneath several suitcases, but I somehow manage it. Once I get safely down, I pull the shades on the door down, and lay on the cushioned bench, breathing in the smell of the leather, and food stains. I can see a corner of the window from my view, and when the train starts moving, the trees blur. The edge of the city turns into grasslands, turn into forest, turn into farms. The sun is setting, making the sky look like a beautiful painting that belongs in the Louvre. And when the train stops the seventh time at Murat, I can almost hear my future calling me home.


End file.
